


Aesthesia

by Miriam_Heddy



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/pseuds/Miriam_Heddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan Ashcroft learns to live with the discomfort of pins and needles as feelings return and Jones remains at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aesthesia

Dan shakily sat the bottle on the floor beside the sofa. It was empty, so if it spilt, he wouldn't have to answer Claire's complaints. Though, as he didn't have the energy to put it in the bin, he'd still have the joy of her disdain heaped upon him. Drinking from the bottle! On a Wednesday before noon, no less!

It was shocking really...

...How little he cared what she thought, though it was probably true that it was Wednesday (he couldn't remember, and last time he'd looked, it had been Monday, closing time) and before noon (though he'd mortally wounded the alarm clock Claire purchased so he'd wake in time for the torturous editorial meetings at SugaRape), and the curtains left the House of Jones in perpetual darkness but for the neon nonsense Jones used to decorate the flat.

Dan might have consulted the wall clock near the decks, only it was one of those cheap plastic ones from IKEA, and the daft wazzock had replaced the plain, white face with his own, Warholified image. And, as the clock's batteries had died ages ago, the hands remained frozen. According to Jones, it was always "quarter past fringe" or "cheekbone," depending on your point of view. Jones' point of view was perpetually askew.

The radio in the kitchen was playing Pink Floyd, and Dan hummed along.

There is no pain you are receding  
A distant ship, smoke on the horizon.  
You are only coming through in waves.  
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying.

"Comfortably numb." The song promised it was just a little pinprick, but Dan had always been too smart--or too frightened--to try heroin. He'd tried pretty much everything else, but, at best, he was left uncomfortably numb.

Jones said drugs didn't change character--they only revealed it. Or, he didn't so much say it as imply it when he told Dan he was a rubbish drunk and if he ever brought anything stronger than Mary Jane to the flat, he'd clock him.

Dan giggled. Jones clocking him. Jones, who was a clock. A clockwork Jones that was wound too tight and never wound down.

The door was opening, but his eyes were too heavy to see who was there.

\------

Dan woke to the sounds of trains colliding at high speed. Someone was shouting for help--possibly dying. There were moans as well, and...a child crying? Fire everywhere. The sky was on fire.

"Alright, Dan?" Jones' headphones were around his neck. The dangling wires got in Dan's face as Jones hovered over him.

Dan lifted his arm from the floor, knocking over a bottle, and waved at Jones in lieu of speaking. Not fire, then. Just the large sheets of fabric Jones used to cover the ceiling--the colours of sunset above and the moss green carpet below, like a lucid dream.

His throat felt closed up and he needed a fag, a piss, and a Brew before he could even think about getting up.

But first, perhaps a bit more sleep.

\--------

The flat was dead quiet. Dan rolled off the sofa and moaned as his knees hit the floor. He put out a hand onto the sofa, prepared to heave himself to standing, but then Jones was beside him, his stubby hands tight around Dan's upper arm where his biceps might be if he took any exercise.

"Slowly. Don't want you falling."

"Make me sound like an old man."

Jones squeezed his arm. "Happy Birthday, Sunshine! An' you're older, not old."

Dan grunted, remembering now. He'd got up in the middle of the night to take a piss and, sleep-addled, had crashed out on the sofa rather than returning to the comfort of bed. Then he'd been dreaming. A nightmare travel back in time, thinking Claire still lived with them; but she'd moved out months ago into her own flat. 

On the table sat a pile of opened presents, paper and ribbons still left on the floor. She'd got him an especially ugly tie and an expensive pair of noise-cancelling headphones. She'd looked over at Jones meaningfully right as Jones was busy wrapping a braided ribbon around his head like a hair band. "Well disco!" Jones said, approvingly, finding another ribbon to braid and tying it around Dan's head. Dan reached up and felt it, still hung round his neck like a sparkling noose.

Jones steered him to the bog and left him leant against the open doorway without another word. Dan pissed for so long, 15Peter20 could've given him a one-man show, then removed his "necklace" and stepped into the shower, standing with his face directly under the spray. He cleaned his teeth in the shower and soaped up lethargically. As he washed his prick, he gave it a pull, but he wasn't terribly interested in a wank, so he rinsed off.

"Towel."

Dan looked through the shower door to where Jones was leaning his arse against the washbasin, towel in his hand. 

"Ay, is it clean?"

"Dunno. You do the wash this year?"

Dan scowled at him, but Jones grinned and brushed his fringe from his eyes with a strangely delicate gesture that Dan had seen over and over and still found endearing. Though he'd never say that aloud.

Jones set the towel on the towel rail beside the basin--too far to reach from the bath.

Dan had meant to wash his hair, but his head hurt and he'd managed to get some soap on and rinsed off the rest of him. He was clean enough, though he planned on taking a long soak after tea.

He shut off the water and drew open the shower door. He stepped out onto the somewhat manky bath mat, dripping on it. 

Jones was in front of the basin, though no longer sat on its edge. His eyes were still ringed with yesterday's kohl, complemented by the shadows that suggested he'd not slept. As if hearing Dan's thoughts, Jones yawned, getting his hand up to his mouth only after Dan had a good view of his tonsils.

"Thanks," Dan said, belatedly. It was Jones who'd thrown the party, against Dan's wishes. 

Jones looked up at Dan from beneath stiffly painted lashes. "You got well maudlin. Thought I'd 'ave to mop you up, way you was goin' on."

Dan tried not to cringe. He knew Jones liked that sort of thing and meant to say that he'd done well expressing himself and not swallowing it down with a drink or five. Dan hated it. Tears were messy and... uncomfortable. Jones' present had done it. It arrived by post a month ago, and Jones had kept it a secret all that time.

"Dreamt you were a clock," Dan remembered, wanting a change of subject.

"Genius! Grandfather?"

"Sod off with the age jokes."

"Meant was I a grandfather clock in your dream, tit. I'd look well punk with a pendulum."

"Punk with a Pendulum. Sounds like the name of a band. Only you were a cuckoo clock. At midnight a little bird popped out your gob and tweeted God Save the Queen." 

Jones tipped his head back and laughed, then looked at Dan with his wide eyes that were a bit too all-seeing. Jones always seemed to enjoy hearing his strange dreams, saying they gave him ideas for his music. Jones made a grand noise with his decks, but, at heart, he was a silent observer--much like Dan, though Dan wrote down his observations and published them, whilst Jones kept himself to himself or let loose with his noise. Neither of them spent much time blethering about feelings.

Jones had watched Dan's degradation, disintegration, and depression (what Dan thought of now as three out of the four Ds that ruled his life) for months with neither a word of support nor condemnation. Dan had sometimes mistaken his quiet for disinterest. Before he hit both pavement and rock bottom, if anyone had thought to ask, Dan would have said Jones was a decent flat mate but not a real mate. He had none. He wasn't good with people. Though if friendship meant a bloke who'd share a Brew and pot noodles with a misanthropic tit, all without putting Dan and his meagre kit on the kerb, Jones had been his best mate long before he'd become something more.

"Penny?"

"Nowt. Can't a man keep his thoughts to himself without a big nose prying into every detail?"

"Alright Dan. Keep yer boots on."

Dan glanced down at his bare feet without meaning to and looked up again in time to see Jones stifle a giggle.

He felt exposed, as if he'd confessed something he'd meant to keep inside. Jones had an annoying habit of getting him to talk. And it would surely be worse now.

Jones tipped his head to the side as if listening to something--perhaps Dan's thoughts. Dan heard nothing but the hiss of pipes and the sound of Jones quietly breathing. It was a rare thing to hear so much silence in the flat.

He reached for the towel to cover up, only Jones got the towel first and held it away from him, dangling it out of reach.

"Jones--"

"Want the towel, you've got to pay for it."

"Mind, it's my towel!"

"And who paid for the water whilst you were skint?"

Dan frowned. "I repay my debts."

"Yeah, you do," Jones acknowledged, his voice gone serious, perhaps sensing he'd crossed a line. Then Jones raised an eyebrow and glanced down at Dan's less than impressive prick. "Bit cold in here, innit?"

"Know of any holes I could use to warm it?"

Jones laughed.

"Give me the towel, little man, or there'll be consequences."

"Ooh. Consequences? I'm trembling with fear. Wait--no--that's me, laughing at yer empty threats."

"Don't be so sure, my ansum. One day, when you least expect it... " Dan looked at Jones' brilliant grin and sighed. "Ah, sod it, Jones. If it means that much to you, keep the sodding towel. In fact, why don't you shove it up your cheeky arse?"

"Think you'd enjoy watching me try," Jones leered at him, shaking the towel overhead like a bloke teasing a cat.

If he jumped for it, Dan could reach it. Jones was not very tall, nor very strong. But jumping whilst naked was undignified, and he had no desire to have Jones see his parts flapping about.

Dan sighed again, torn between growling and laughing. "That train crash trammel on the decks. What was that about?"

"What cra--oh, the mix? Train crash? Alright! You like it?"

Dan opened his mouth to say it was bloody awful, but what came out was, "It was thematically cohesive."

"It was? I, um, cohesive, yeah. Thematically... that mean you liked it?" Jones, who was easily distracted, was chewing on his thumb and looking like he'd forgotten all about the towel. He'd set it behind him.

Seeing his chance, Dan stepped forward and pushed Jones' arse back against the washbasin, pinning him there with his pelvis as he reached behind Jones and got hold of them towel. He put it behind his own back and grinned. 

"Mmhmm, whatcha say?"

"Oi, what 'appened to fair play?" 

Jones' feigned outrage became real as he felt Dan transfer some of his wet to Jones' t-shirt and jeans. Dan ruthlessly shook his head, spraying Jones with more water, and pressed against him until Jones' t-shirt was sticking to his narrow chest.

"Love and war, Petal." Dan took a step back and began toweling himself off, nonchalantly, whilst Jones watched. His body had partly dried off, but his hair still needed a good rub. He dropped the towel onto the floor when he was finished.

He must've put on a good show, as Jones licked his lips, grinned a bit wolfishly, and then stripped off his damp t-shirt, wiping his face with it before dropping it on top of the wet towel.

Jones wiggled his hips, shifting from one bare foot to another. Dan moved in close again, helping Jones get his jeans and pants down. Jones stepped out of them and Dan added them to the pile on the floor. 

And there was the fourth D.

Jones was half-hard already, but before Dan could say or do anything about it, Jones put his hand on Dan's chest. "Pills first. Else you'll forget, or I will."

Dan let go of Jones, reaching over to where his weekly pillbox sat beside Jones' toothbrush. All the pills were counted up by Jones--a vestige of a time when Jones rightly feared he'd try swallowing them all. He used to lock them away as well, only recently deciding it was safe to leave a week's worth out. Dan had cycled through an array of chemist's bags and mood swings, trying to find the magic combination that made him not feel the blackness of depression whilst also not making him so physically ill he was turned inside out.

They'd finally settled on a mix that made his dick slow to rise, and made him black out if he rose from being sat too quickly. Something to do with his blood pressure. Inconvenient but non-life-threatening, the doctor said, and Claire pointed out he should be used to it after years as a falling-down drunk.

Only he'd gone sober, hadn't he, at first because the doctor said it was either booze or pain pills, and the booze didn't help the ache of bones with pins in them. After that, he'd slipped, then woken up in hospital, then quit for good, at Jones' quiet request, and partly to spite Claire, who thought he couldn't. It'd been the first time Jones had ever spoken to him that way--like he had a right to make such a request, and like Dan should have known all along that Jones cared.

Not drinking might've been difficult if he were a social drinker. As he was essentially antisocial, there was little temptation. At home, it was getting easier, and he'd not gone into withdrawal, much to Claire's disbelief. Poisoning himself had always been a matter of choice rather than compulsion. Jones had seemed to know that, and had given him no sympathy, though he did put up with Dan's taking out his vexation on Jones, often heaping crude insults upon him that Jones let slide off him with nary a reaction save the occasional compliment at a particularly inventive turn of phrase. 

And Jones refrained from drinking as well, though he'd not stopped taking pills to sleep and to wake and to stay awake on his strange schedule.

Those he kept locked up even now, not trusting Dan not to take them (by choice, not compulsion). Lying awake, alone, he'd come to realise that his habit was to ruminate unless he'd drunk enough to sleep. The doctor had refused him both sleep aids and anti-anxiety pills on the grounds that he was to learn meditation to relax. It was bollocks, trying to stare at a lit candle and breathe. Instead, he learnt to write instead of think, and, if Jones were out, he'd often find Dan asleep at his makeshift desk.

Once, and only once, he'd tried to pick the lock. His sweaty fingers had slipped and Claire's hairpin broke and got stuck. When Jones got home he'd looked at Dan with baleful eyes but said nothing before moving his stash to a new secret spot. Dan easily guessed at the spot (the flat was only so large and Jones was not that imaginative) but he'd never tried it again, more out of respect for Jones than anything. That night, he'd vowed not to have Jones find him, dead. Then, months later, he'd stopped wanting to die.

"Dan."

Dan swallowed his morning dose down with a mouthful of water and a grimace.

"Alright?"

"Bloody well obvious the answer is no, innit?"

"Please, Dan." Again, Jones turned those eyes on him. Big, blue, black-limned alien eyes, and that soft, measured voice Jones had learnt to talk him down.

"Sorry, Jones. Sorry. Sorry. Fuck. Not your fault I'm an ungrateful prick and mental besides."

"You're no more mental than I am."

"Liar. You weren't the one on suicide watch."

Jones winced. It was unfair. Jones had been there. Jones had watched. The second time, with the pills, Jones had accompanied him to A&E.

"Sorry. Sorry. I should learn to think before I speak."

"You should learn to think," Jones suggested, with no real animus.

"Touché."

Jones reached out and touched Dan's chest, slowly and deliberately tracing over his heart with a ragged fingernail that left small scratches on his skin. They'd soon fade. Dan reckoned Jones wanted to mark him permanently, though he had no idea why.

"Tu m'excites. Tu me rends fou." Jones' voice was just above a whisper; the switch from argument to seduction left Dan off balance.

Dan raised an eyebrow.

Jones shrugged. "Thought we was speaking French now. It's well sexy. Baises moi. Means--"

"I know what it means." Then softer, he added, "Is that what you want?"

Jones nodded solemnly. "Only if you're not in the mood..." 

"We'll see what the pills have to say." The pills had left him unable, last night.

Jones smiled, hopeful, but not too hopeful. "Opinionated little buggers."

Dan offered a smile back, ignoring the feel of his throat going tight with feelings he'd rather not name, and which Jones would force him to acknowledge well before he leapt out of another window.

Dan pulled Jones towards him again, bare skin against bare skin, wrapping his arms around him tight and resting his chin on Jones' shoulder. In the mirror, he could see his own face and the back of Jones' multicoloured barnet side by side atop the beautiful line of Jones' back, like a freak show two-headed man with one head on backwards. Two heads and one heart betweenthem. Jones would argue they had two hearts and half a brain.

Grey hairs had begun to thread through his own hair in the last year. Jones insisted on cutting it in what looked to Dan like a girlish bob more suitable for a younger man. Jones wasn't a proper barber, but he played in the salon often enough that he seemed to have picked up some technique, as well as seemingly endless packets of hair dye which he offered to use on Dan. Dan often wondered if Jones would eventually want someone younger and more fashionable and better looking--someone who would fit in with the club scene rather than scowling at it from the periphery.

Jones was attractive. He had his own groupies--young, fit androgynes with slim hips, fashionable clothing, and pretty (if vacant) faces that turned raptly toward Jones as he sang and danced to his self-made sonic chaos.

Dan's own face was plain, with eyes that Claire called shifty topped by eyebrows that were a bit much; "Expressive," Jones insisted. He had a strong, unfashionable moustache he was quite proud of, and a nose that was long and straight and not at all as memorable as Jones' odd beak. He usually had at least a day's growth of beard he planned to shave off and sometimes did, and a mouth that, according to Jones, should smile more--true smiles, not his usual, tight smile that made everyone who knew him take a step back.

Yet Jones saw something that kept him at Dan's side over the last year. 

"Why are you here, Jones?"

Jones shrugged, kissed him on the neck, and whispered, "Me nan always said the Lord--He works in mysterious ways. Best not question it."

"But I am questioning it and I don't believe in mysteries. It's a choice."

"An' it's my choice, yeah?"

"Well, it's an idiotic choice."

Jones rolled his eyes. "An' it's an idiotic world, innit, with poor Dan Ashcroft destined to stand alone, doomed to a state of enlightenment whilst all those around 'im fumble in the dark cave, grasping at shadows."

"You've not read Plato!"

"If it makes you feel better, I'm well illiterate. Can barely write me own name in crayon, me. Left school aged ten to join up wif a gang a pickpockets and ne'er do wells... Oi, I'll tell ye me life's tragic story for a tuppence, Mister. Fer two, I'll get on me knees and give ye a blowie ye won't soon forget. Three an' I'll--"

"Sod off, Oliver. Point taken."

"Hmm. Think you might just get that blowie free jus' fer bein' such a gentleman." Jones giggled and relaxed in his embrace, rubbing his erection against Dan's thigh whilst pressing kisses to Dan's neck. The kisses turned to soft bites, then Jones rose up on the balls of his feet and chose a spot high on Dan's neck to suck on. Jones liked to leave both scratches and bruises where they'd be seen. Dan found he liked wearing them.

Dan moaned softly, encouraging him to keep on, and Jones got a hand between them and took hold of Dan's dick, giving it a casual pull. Jones had got used to Dan's erratic impotence more easily than did Dan, thankfully offering no pity nor ever suggesting it necessarily meant an end to Jones' carnal plans. 

They'd had sex, of a sort, many times now without Dan's ever getting hard or feeling much desire, at first, and it had never been one-sided. Given time, the fires did light, if not to a blaze, then to a comfortable heat, fanned by Jones' own sunshine. Jones said he'd read somewhere that the largest sexual organ was the skin, and even the largest penis only accounted for a small part of that. 

Jones was nothing if not inventive, and he had an inexplicable fondness for broken toys and antique equipment.

Of course, Dan kept such thoughts to himself.

Jones' hand on his cock was a steady pressure as Jones moved from worrying his neck to biting his earlobe, at last whispering, "Come to bed and I'll let you try your new pressie."

Dan grinned and let himself be walked backward out of the small, humid bathroom and into the small, but cosy bedroom. Jones fell back onto the bed, bouncing on the mattress like a child, then wiggling his slim hips until he was centred on the duvet. Jones made a show of using his left hand to touch himself, drawing circles round his nipples, then following the line of hair down to his prick.

Dan climbed on top of him, balancing on hands and knees so that Jones had to move up and lean on the bed head to kiss him.

"Where is it?" Dan growled, suddenly impatient.

Jones reached under the pillow and pulled out the cock ring--one of three birthday gifts Dan had not expected.

"Where should I--"

"Up on your knees."

Dan got on his knees on the bed, feeling more than a bit ridiculous as Jones spun around onto his back so he lay with the top of his head pressed against Dan's knees.

Jones looked up at him from below and crossed his eyes, then giggled. Jones looked like a mechanic at a garage--the image made more vivid when Jones put a slick hand on Dan's erection and began to jack him. Dan shut his eyes. Some things were best left to the imagination.

Only when Jones began making sexy sounds, Dan opened his eyes again and looked down. The angle proved embarrassing.

Dan sucked in his gut, but then Jones muttered, "Christy, breathe, big man. You keel over now an' I'm done for."

"Shut it."

"Though it'd be a helluva way to go." Jones giggled, then frowned. "Sorry. Only yeah, do breathe. An' don't move 'less you like singing soprano. This' harder than it looks." Another snicker and Jones added, "More difficult."

"Jones--"

"Now, then, hold still, me lovelies."

Jones pulled a face, sticking the tip of his tongue out of his mouth as he pushed the ring up Dan's erection, then looped the second part of it around his balls, then continued to carefully slide the ring into place, pausing only when Dan said, "ow" as Jones pulled at a few hairs.

"Sorry 'bout that. Done." Jones patted Dan's erection like it was a pet, then scooted back to his earlier position, head on the pillow with his arms crossed under to prop him up. "Just admiring the effect. 'Ow’s it feel?"

"Strange," Dan admitted. It was just strange, being trussed up. Though he had no fear of losing his erection now. "Doesn't hurt."

"Looks..." Jones swallowed. "Might tie up the rest of you as well."

"Alright," Dan agreed. He got down to his hands and knees, crawling over to Jones. Jones lifted his upper body for a kiss, looping his arms around Dan's neck and pulling him down on top of Jones.

"Hmmph. So good. So... Hmm." Jones spread his skinny legs, locking them around Dan's back, heels digging into Dan's arse.

"Like this?" Dan asked, shifting so his erection pressed against Jones', then angling lower so he pushed up against Jones' arse.

"Yes," Jones hissed. "Fuckfuckfuck."

Dan blindly reached for the lube. He was a bit rough, getting it on and in Jones, but the keening noises Jones made urged him to hurry.

He tossed the lube to the side and grabbed hold of Jones by the knees, sliding him up onto his lap. Jones, demonstrating an enviable flexibility, draped his legs up over Dan's shoulders.

"Do it. Baises moi." Jones licked his lips and visibly relaxed, except for the slight trembling of his thighs.

Dan nodded and thrust in, finding Jones was, indeed, ready. "Fuck, tight. Jones, I--"

"Love you," Jones whispered, then shut his eyes as Dan found a rhythm. Then there was just slick, tight heat and friction and pleasure.

\------

They were sat so close together, their knees bumped as Jones leant forward to hand him his last pressie.

The box was large as a shoebox, but light. Jones grinned as Dan shook it, feeling something smaller inside shift back and forth. He tore open the shiny red paper and opened what was, in fact, a shoebox. The lid was just barely stuck on with a few small pieces of Sellotape. He took the top off the box and took out the much smaller box inside--this one also wrapped with the same red paper, though this had a silver ribbon tied around it. Dan glanced at Jones, seeing him nervously lick his lips.

Dan reached over and grabbed hold of Jones' chin, pulling him in for a kiss. It was meant to be tender but turned rough as Jones threw his arms around Dan's neck, leaping onto his lap and nearly knocking the gift box out of his hands. There was something desperate about the way Jones clung to him, as if he were saying goodbye. It made him hold on tighter.

It was an irrational thought. There was no reason to think that save his own anxiety--aided by three cups of coffee earlier and no wine nor champagne to relax him after Claire'd keyed him up. Having Claire over for tea and cake had begun alright, then swiftly turned sour. Jones said afterwards that he hoped one day, one or both of them would grow up. It seemed unlikely.

The party began with Jones and Claire singing to him, accompanied by a very loud birthday mix Jones put on the decks. After Dan blew out the candle (silently wishing not to drive Jones away), Claire cut and served the cake. It was chocolate, at his request, with Polo mints on top. Jones had set them into the chocolate icing in a spiral pattern "representing your long and winding road." Dan kept to himself the thought that it it looked more like a confectionery depiction of his spiralling depression.

After the tea went round, Claire started in with digs about his advanced age, dwindling prospects, and need to get out more. "Nathan Barley isn't everywhere, Dan. Be reasonable."

"Yeah, but his clones are," Dan argued.

"You're paranoid, and it's not healthy. The doctors said you shouldn't isolate yourself. You should think about dating. You're not fit, but someone out there might appreciate your... Whatever it is you have."

"Intelligence, humour, and charm, and he is, too, fit," Jones spoke up.

"Ta, pet."

"Alright, Dan." Jones smiled softly but kept his eyes on his tea.

Claire was looking at Jones suspiciously, then back at Dan. 

Dan glanced over at Jones again, wondering if it was time to tell her that Jones was more than a flat mate. They weren't keeping it a secret, but he'd reckoned she'd clue in herself and then there'd be no need for a discussion/interrogation.

Only, before he could say anything, Claire went on, "Even if Jones is right, if you don't put yourself out there, you'll end up alone like poor Uncle Frederick and his ten cats."

"He really have ten cats?" Jones' eyes widened. They had one, who tended to hide, but Jones had a soft spot for strays, so Dan was somewhat resigned to coming home to find a second, and perhaps a third one day.

"Dan even looks a bit like Uncle Frederick. Though Frederick didn't run to fat until he was in his sixties."

Dan turned to Claire and smiled, baring his teeth. "Claire, have I mentioned that your arms are starting to wobble? Just a bit, mind, but it's quite visible when you pick up your fork."

Jones drew in a sharp breath, but Claire just glared at Dan and then responded to Jones' question.

"Yes, Jones, he does have ten cats. It's a sad story, really. He was a writer, once, as Dan claims to be, though Frederick published a few detective novels when he was young. Then something in him just snapped one day, and now he writes angry letters to all the newspapers that never get printed, though I asked him to send copies of them to me, because I think one day--after he passes, of course--they'll make an interesting book. A character study in loneliness."

"Oh," Jones said, his brows drawn together as he seemed to catch on.

Dan cleared his throat and waited till Claire, lulled by a sense of victory, stuffed her gob with cake and then said, "I thought that was to be the title of your autobiography, Claire."

"Dan--"

"Ow! Fuck!"

Claire let the fork fall into Dan's lap. She'd struck him in the gut, but the tines had snapped off before they could push through shirt and skin. Nothing was hurt by his pride, though he suspected she would have done the same had they had any clean silver.

He took a napkin and wiped at where icing had been rubbed on his shirt, whilst Claire sat back in her chair, looking well pleased with herself.

"Ow," Dan said again, in case it'd been missed.

"You alright?" Jones leant in and poked at Dan's middle a few times, apparently unaware Dan was a bit uncomfortable with the scrutiny of his belly, which had not, as he had hoped, diminished with his sobriety. At least one of his pills made him hungry, and cutting down on smoking meant he could taste his food for the first time in years. Jones, who'd had plenty to say about his other vices, only saw fit to mention that he'd always had a liking for big Northern blokes that could snap him like a twiglet.

Claire huffed a sigh and, without prompting, mumbled, "Sorry, Dan."

Dan was still considering the appropriate retaliatory strategy and doubted the sincerity of her apology. 

It might well have ended in Indian burns and broken nails but for Jones, who said, "Oi, if I'm to be DJ and bouncer, I expect double-pay and a bonus for refereeing the kiddie table."

And so Dan replied, "Apology accepted, Fat Arms," which was worth the pinch Jones gave his bum as they walked Claire to the door and Dan and Jones both hugged her goodbye.

Then it was just the two of them, and Jones turned off the music and handed him the box he'd said had to be opened in private.

\------

They snogged for long enough that Jones' chin and cheeks were rosy from Dan's beard when he finally pulled away to breathe. Jones didn't get off of Dan's lap, instead sitting sideways on it with one arm slung around Dan's shoulders, and the other placed on Dan's chest. Dan put the box on Jones' lap and pulled off the ribbon, then the paper. 

Inside was a hinged, blue velvet jewellery box. It was just a bit garish, and for a moment, Dan was reluctant to look inside. But he felt Jones tense up in anticipation, so he pried open the lid and saw that, inside, there were two, somewhat wide, gold bands, one clearly smaller in circumference than the other. He picked up the larger one and said, "What's this?"

Jones made a little "ah" sound at the back of his throat and then said, very calmly, "What's it look like?"

"A ring."

"Two. There's two of 'em."

"Alright, two rings."

Jones nodded. "They're a matching set."

"Wh--"

"You can wear one of 'em and keep the other for if you, um, when you find someone you want to give it to."

"Ah."

Jones expelled a breath and opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but didn't say anything more.

"What if the second ring doesn't fit the person I've in mind to wear it?" Dan asked.

Jones blinked a few too many times in succession before taking a rather shallow breath and shrugging. "I dunno. Think the jeweller can resize it. They can--least I reckon...." Jones trailed off with a frown.

"Ah. Of course. I'm sure you're right. Well, thank you." Dan put the larger ring back in the box beside the smaller and popped the box closed. It made a loud snap in the quiet room.

Jones gulped rather loudly. "I--uh--if you don't--if it's not right, the design or the, um, size, I think I can--I can--um...."

Dan pulled Jones' thumb from his mouth before he could further ravage the already ragged thumbnail.

"Jones, I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd--I dunno. I just saw 'em and--um...." Jones looked at his thumbnail with concern. He'd torn the cuticle and it was bleeding a little. 

Dan brought Jones' thumb to his mouth and kissed it, tasting the blood. Then he tipped Jones' face a bit and kissed his mouth, biting a bit on the trembling lower lip until Jones began kissing him back with some urgency--and that same kind of desperation that had made Dan think of endings and goodbyes. A few tears rolled down Jones' cheeks and Dan tasted tears, though his own cheeks were wet as well, so the tears might be his own.

While they kissed, Dan fumbled with the box, getting it open again and putting the larger ring on his own left ring finger before taking out the other, smaller ring and, finding Jones’ hand, slid the ring on Jones' ring finger. That done, Dan held Jones' hand tight, so the bands touched.

When Jones pulled away, he stared at the rings a moment before saying, "You're a cuntbox. A big, ugly--"

"With this ring, I thee wed."

"Twat."

"I know."

"You--"

"That too."

"Insensitive, manipulative, tit."

Dan pressed his forehead against Jones' forehead and waited.

"Idiot."

"Yes," Dan agreed. He was all that and worse besides. "But I'm your idiot?" he added when Jones remained silent.

Jones bumped their foreheads together gently and muttered, "Open the other one."

"What--"

"This." Jones grabbed a piece of red wrapping from the table that Dan had overlooked. 

Dan used his free hand to rip it open and pulled out... "A bracelet?"

Jones giggled and snuffled, then tipped his head back and laughed. "Idiot. What--you never seen a cockring before?"

Dan looked at the thing again. It was impossible to tell how it worked. "Only one?"

Jones laughed. "Yeah, only one. See, it's official now, innit?"

"What--what's official, exactly?" Dan asked, cautious, as Jones seemed to understand him farbetter than he ever understood Jones.

"Us! Look!" Jones held their clasped hands up as if Dan might have forgotten the matching gold rings--each with a band wide enough to not be easily missed--then pointed at the cockring. "We're a three-ring circus!"

Dan stared at Jones, suddenly a bit overwhelmed at the scope of what Jones was suggesting, and how I'll-equipped Dan felt to commit to it, though he already had. "Suppose I'm the dancing bear."

Jones grinned. "Alright! And since I'm hung like one, I'll be the elephant." And Jones tooted as a very small, asthmatic elephant might, then burst out laughing at his own joke before hopping off Dan's lap and pulling him toward the bedroom, their left hands still clasped tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Lynn for the Brit beta and the encouragement.
> 
> I live for feedback. Please consider telling me something about this story!


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